


Barista

by Prism0467 (marley_station)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Gen, One Shot, One-Sided Relationship, POV First Person, Piercings, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:11:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marley_station/pseuds/Prism0467
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Gaara's birthday 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barista

**Author's Note:**

> This is a G-rated genfic with NaruGaa leanings, written as a companion piece to [this](http://gaia77.deviantart.com/art/The-Barista-151070387) and [this](http://gaia77.deviantart.com/art/Uzumaki-151018298), compliments of the lovely and talented **Gaia77** and in honor of the Sandman’s birthday. Happy birthday, Gaara, and many, many, happy returns! We love you!!!!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warning** : un-beta'd
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : I do not own _Naruto_ or anything associated to it beyond this fanfic.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **NOTE: THIS WORK OF FANFICTION WAS ORIGINALLY POSTED TO DEVIANTART.COM ON 19 JANUARY 2010.**

There wasn't much in the way of an expression in that rare combination of beautiful, perfect features.  There was only the ever-present message that he only tolerated what he did, and for whom.  It was unfortunate.  I resigned myself to the knowledge that, while I might never know the barista beyond what my mind conceived, I was still privy to the sometimes breathtaking sight of him, and I suspected I was far from alone in my adoration.  
  
  
He worked efficiently.  For each person who came in and ordered 'the usual', he responded accurately and without unnecessary dialogue.  Every now and again he would look up and make eye contact, and in those brief moments time stood still.  
  
  
His eyes were the most magnificent shade of translucent green that anyone had ever seen, I was sure.  They seemed to be able to peer into the deepest recess of your soul, where they could divine your darkest secrets.  Ironically, they didn't  _reveal_  a damn thing.  And the way the barista sported them--lined all the way around in black kohl--made me suspect that he knew it too.  Maybe it was his unique way of putting up his middle finger to the world at large.  
  
  
Appropriately, he sported short, careless spikes of deep, rich red hair (some of it long enough in front to threaten to obstruct the view of those magical eyes).  I was genetically hard-coded to be pleased about this, my mother being a redhead herself.  
  
  
Piercings marked the enticing pale but not ghostly canvas that covered him from scalp to sole.  He had a metal stud above his chin that forced you to pay your visual respects to full, pink lips; a variety of semi-precious studs adorned the rims of both ears that looked like penny candy and led down to small hoops piercing nicely-formed earlobes; and a barbell had a home in one eyebrow, a road map that drew your gaze away from his hypnotic eyes and toward a tattoo directly above it on his forehead.  It was a kanji character; a shade of red reminiscent of his hair color that translated to, of all things, the word 'love' in English.  
  
  
For my money, it was exactly how it  _should_  have translated.  The barista  _was_  love-to the eye and to the mind.  He was exalted art cinema, live and in the flesh.  He was sublime.  
  
  
I didn't go to the coffee house every day, but I wanted to.  The artist in me was powerfully, profoundly compelled by the barista's mystique.  Why was the kanji for 'love' tattooed on his forehead?  How many more tattoos did he have, and where?  How many more piercings?  Was his flesh as flawless everywhere else as it appeared on his arms and face? Beneath the scent of premium coffee beans, would he smell as tempting and exotic as he looked?  
  
  
Did he ever smile?  Did he even know how?  
  
  
Without meaning to, I saw him as a challenge.  All my life I'd been referred to as 'sunny' and I suppose it fits me.  I mean, I  _am_  a natural blond.  And chalk it up to happy, loving parents that I could be disarmingly unsinkable at times.  It was my special gift--at least, one I wanted very much to climb the fence that surrounded the amazing barista to share with him.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
It was one of the warmer mornings we'd had the day I actually said something to the barista that didn't involve how I wanted my latte (for the record, I take a grande hazelnut crème with a swirl of caramel).  I was in a casual mood and wasn't wearing anything special-a burnt orange tee shirt and denim jeans.  The barista-I didn't know his name-was manning his usual post, wearing his trademark dark tee shirt and dark pants, and the coffee house's signature tan apron.  That clothing so plain and simple could have such a dramatic effect on him gained him additional reverence in my eyes.  
  
  
Something in me wanted to take him away to someplace safe and secluded and draw, paint and photograph him at my leisure.  I could see myself feverishly pumping out a hundred works of art, fueled by my inspiration.  Then I would create a shrine-like gallery and fill it with the work, so that he-along with the rest of the free-thinking world-could see what I saw, and feel what I felt each and every time I had the pleasure of seeing it.  
  
  
I approached the counter with confidence, like always.  Honestly, I don't know how to shut that off.  
  
  
I always order as if it were my first visit to the coffee house.  I know he knows how I take my latte.  But I want him to hear my joy at being in that place, looking at him, even though he rarely looks back.  It's there, injected into my voice; the only thing I feel I can safely share with him.  
  
  
There were two other employees beside the owner of the place.  They could have arms growing out of their heads for all I knew.  The barista with the enchanting eyes was who kept me coming back, even more than the coffee or the quirky ambience did.  I was thunderstruck.  
  
  
"If you get a chance", I found myself telling him as I held my order, "be sure and get outside.  It's going to be beautiful today."  
  
  
And it was.  I knew that, even though I didn't know how I knew.  A surprisingly desperate need for a reaction kept me near the counter even as the barista busied himself with other customers.  When it became clear to me that I would not get my wish, I turned and left, sighing deeply.  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
The scent of changing seasons hit me square in the face the second I cleared the coffee house doors.  I stood, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  _A reminder._  
  
  
I opened my eyes again and looked at life buzzing around me.  What was I thinking in there?  What did I want from him?  I wasn't sure.  What I did know was that it wasn't fair of me to try to place the obligation of a reaction on him.  He didn't owe me that or anything else.  But the spoiled brat in me disliked the position I was in, far away from him, where he kept me and everyone else.  Suddenly I wanted more.  I wanted to share an evolving spring day with him.  
  
  
The artist in me knew of at least twenty different ways to capture the essence of a day like that.  It wouldn't be hard.  And I was sure the barista could appreciate it.  You could tell by the way he crafted lattes each day-with an artist's eye.  
  
  
I smirked to myself at the thought, took a sip of my latte in tribute, and moved on.  
  
  
It could have been one thing or many things-I couldn't tell you for certain what made me look back.  I was walking down the sidewalk, on my way to enjoy a blissfully beautiful weekday when I did it, and I saw him.  The barista was sitting on the window ledge inside the coffee house, a travel mug carelessly supported by delicate fingers.  He was looking out-at me, at the road, I couldn't tell.  I'd hoped it was the former, so I smiled.  For the first time, I  _saw_  something in those eyes-something that, even from a distance, he could not conceal.  My mind went in all directions at once, trying to figure out what it might mean before I relented.  It's all part of his mystique, I reasoned.  Or maybe this was the reaction I'd waited for.  Maybe it was all the barista could do to enjoy a day like that.  
  
  
I turned and continued forward, latte in hand, locking that majestic visual in my memory with gratitude, and vowing to share the day with him soon.


End file.
